by Ruth Hay
Chapter Nine
Anna wakened early and lay peacefully relishing the pleasure of finding herself in her own bedroom in the estate house. Fiona had retrieved special items from the locked cedar closet over the front porch that Anna kept there for each visit. Her own double duvet with the tartan cover was spread over the bed, and matching warm slippers and dressing gown were placed on the velvet chair in front of the fire. Anna herself had banked the fire down before she fell asleep. It was an automatic response whenever she returned to the house. She hardly remembered doing it, so ingrained was the action for her after weeks of wintry weather when she first stayed in the house.
The peace of the old stone-walled room soothed away any lingering effects of transatlantic travel. She allowed one stray thought to enter her mind before dismissing it.
How long can I tolerate this to and fro existence without making a final decision on where I truly belong?
Hunger began to impinge on her thoughts. How many hours had it been since she ate Fiona’s soup? Without bothering to check her watch, she jumped up, donned her dressing gown and slippers and shuffled to the window to gaze out on Helen’s Hill behind the property.
Snow had melted during the night and then frozen over as ice in the early hours. Tufts of grass and spiky gorse bushes were decked in sparkling icicles. The rill that flowed down from the tarn at the summit was dodging in and out of icy ridges that caught the pale, early sunlight and shattered it into a million rainbow sequins.
Anna breathed deeply, thankful that she had taken the opportunity to see this view and share the house with Alina at long last.
Alina! What’s she doing? What kind of a hostess am I?
Anna ran down the stairs to the kitchen where she found Fiona and Morag having a quiet talk together while Fiona prepared breakfast.
“Good morning!” said the young woman with a smile, pouring tea for Anna from the big brown pot. “Now don’t be disturbing your friend. She was up late and will probably be asleep for an hour or so yet. She was in the lounge bed so she could do some investigating. Just get some food inside you and I’ll away and drive some of my old ladies to town. I’ll be back afore noon.”
As Anna listened, she saw Fiona add milk to the tea, put down a plate of cat food for Morag and
collect her keys and coat from a chair. As the last words left her mouth she was closing the kitchen door behind her and heading for the outer door.
“That girl!” marvelled Anna. “She’s a power house, if ever there was one. Was I ever that efficient, I wonder?”
She sat down, to sip her tea and plan her first foray into the secrets of her aunt, Helen Dunlop. Morag hopped up onto her lap and proceeded to distract her with deep purring. Once more Anna had to stop and delight in the moment; this amazing room with the spectacular view; this lovely tabby cat, like and unlike, dear Sylvester; this wonderful, peaceful house where the world’s stresses and strains seemed to vanish in the mists. How lucky I am.
It was impossible to sit here and not think of the woman who had made it all happen for Anna.
Now where should she start to look? Helen Dunlop was a secretive person, by all accounts.
She would have carefully concealed any private information, if, indeed, any such information still existed. Anna remembered the crates of personal effects she had found on one of her first memorable ventures into the barn. When the barn was converted into a garage, a partition was erected, behind which any items still left in the barn were concealed. Aunt Helen’s bicycle and the crates were surely still there awaiting her inspection.
This thought impelled Anna to action. She moved Morag to another chair and filled a plate with eggs, beans and toast from various dishes in the warming oven and gobbled them down quickly. Leaving a note for Alina, she sped upstairs to dress warmly and head over to the barn.
Anna was grateful for the heavy coat and boots she had brought from Canada. The barn was now draught-free but very cold nonetheless. She pushed the barn doors closed, switched on the overhead lights and made her way across the concrete floor to the door in the partition.
Sure enough, three crates were standing together against the rear wall of the barn. Anna removed her gloves, blew on her fingers and lifted two wooden lids aside. She remembered opening these crates before. The first was almost empty now as she had retrieved from it a number of household items that proved useful. Some small gardening tools were still in the bottom of the crate but nothing there seemed likely to reveal any secrets. She moved on to the next one.
This crate had housed books mostly. Anna had found cook books and a few of the classics which were now on the shelves in the lounge. She had hoped to discover a photograph album, journal or diary but nothing that exciting had appeared. She had a sudden thought that there might be a false bottom on the crate so she turned it on its side and poked about with her fingers to see if any small space in the base would access a hidden panel. Nothing moved.
Might as well chop this one up for firewood, she thought.
The lid of the last crate was still firmly nailed down and she remembered that this one had never been opened before. Excitement raised her heartbeat and she quickly found a tool to prise up the nails and look inside.
More disappointment. Books and magazines filled the interior almost to the top. Had Anna never been a librarian in London, she would have happily popped the lid back on and walked away, but her respect for the printed word would not allow her to do that. She stood on the upturned crate and began to pull out the items just to see what kinds of books Aunt Helen valued enough to store them away like this.
The magazines were old issues of National Geographic and she piled these on the crate lid for later inspection. The books did not appear to be any different from the contents of the second box; a mix of paperbacks about Oban and area, an atlas, tartans of Scottish clans and the familiar leather-bound series, some of which were already in the lounge.
Anna sat back on her heels and felt frustration surge through her. She had been so sure she would discover something important on this short trip. This had been her last hope. Every other corner of the estate house had been investigated when the renovations were done.
There was nowhere else to search.
“Anna? Where are you? Help me with this heavy door. It’s freezing out here.”
Alina’s voice broke into Anna’s depressing thoughts and she promptly pulled herself to her feet and went to the partition door to call to her friend.
“I’m coming! Wait there!”
“Goodness! This place is huge! No attached garage on this property, I guess. It’s quite a trek to get here through the rear garden.”
“Sorry, Alina! I should have been back at the house by now. I was looking for clues about Aunt Helen in the crates she left here and I lost track of time.”
“Well, where are these crates? That sounds promising.”
“Unfortunately, there’s just more of the same stuff I found before. Even the unopened box has nothing special in it.”
“Let me have a look anyway, now I’ve made it this far!”
Reluctantly, Anna led the way back behind the partition and stood aside while Alina checked over the pile of books she had unpacked.
“Hmm! I see what you mean. Most of this is similar to the stuff I spent an hour or more investigating last night.”
Looking up, she saw the surprise on Anna’s face and quickly explained, “I was just trying to help you get a head start on the search but I found absolutely nothing on the bookshelves.”
“Perhaps this is a waste of time and money. We should have gone straight to Egypt instead of dragging ourselves up here in the dead of winter. I apologize, Alina!”
“Hey! Any chance to be here and see this house in Scotland is a bonus as far as I’m concerned. It’s not like you to give up so soon. We just have to think like Helen did and keep trying to unlock her secrets. We still have several days here!”
“I’m beginning to think there may not
be any secrets,” groaned Anna.
“Now, that’s foolish! You know everyone has secrets of some kind or another. Your family is the perfect example.”
“I suppose you are right. What will we do with these books, in the meantime?”
“Let’s take the best of them back to the house for further study. I still have one bookcase to look through in the lounge and you can do this pile.”
Anna hated to discourage Alina. The purpose of the holiday had been to distract her friend from her worries. If examining dusty old books occupied her mind, who was Anna to deny her the benefit.
Grabbing a bundle of books each, they left the barn, made their way back through the rear gate and along the path to the back door of the house. Dumping the books on the kitchen table, they divested themselves of outer wear and huddled near the Aga to warm up while the electric kettle boiled away merrily, promising hot drinks in minutes.
The bright, warm kitchen soon lifted Anna’s spirits and the two friends chatted away happily while they drank coffee and ate more hot buttered toast, making the excuse that they needed extra calories this soon after breakfast in order to withstand the cold weather.
Morag hopped up onto the window bench to watch birds flock to the feeders suspended from a bush outside. Alina found a duster and started to dust off the books they had brought with them. Anna spread the pile out on the table and invited Alina to take her pick of volumes.
“These are all yours,” she replied. I’m off to make my bed and work my way through the second bookcase. I’ll holler if I find anything interesting.”
Anna was positive there was nothing at all to discover. She was sure Jeanette or Fiona had looked through the books in the bookcases when they arranged the ones for display, but once again she decided not to discourage her companion.
With a deep sigh she drew the books toward her and glanced at the titles. Some were so out-of- date she cast them aside almost immediately. The leather-bound classics she placed together and scanned their titles. There were a few by Jane Austin and Charlotte Bronte that might be of interest to visitors.
“Well, that didn’t take long!” she declared to Morag, who expressed no interest whatsoever in anything other than fluttering birds at the feeders.
Anna picked up the discarded paperbacks and carried them over to the wood basket near the foot of the staircase for later transport to the upstairs fires. As she was placing the books in the basket she noticed that one of them was much lighter in weight than the others, although they were much the same size and shape. She picked up this book for a closer look and thought the title, ‘Tales From the Greenhouse’, to be likely another of Aunt Helen’s gardening books.
Something made her curious about the disparity in weight, however, and she hefted the book in her hand before opening it. So unexpectedly light was the book that it fell out of her hand and bounced off the bottom step of the staircase, landing spine up on the slate floor.
“Darn nuisance!” she murmured, as she bent down to throw it back in the basket. To her amazement, the cover of the book lifted easily in her hand, leaving a sheaf of papers lying on the floor.
Thinking the pages of the book had somehow separated from the cover, Anna made to scoop them up together when she noticed the pages were covered in handwriting.
A shock ran through her. She recognized this writing from letters she had received.
These pages were written by Aunt Helen and concealed inside a book for some reason.
With mouth agape, Anna carefully collected the pages and placed them with the book cover on the nearest part of the kitchen table.
It was immediately obvious why the book had seemed so light in weight. The entire centre of the book had been cut out. She could see the original ragged page edges. The space inside had contained the hand-written pages which now formed an untidy pile on the table.
Anna began to tremble. It was clear that Helen Dunlop did not mean these writings to be found. She had carefully planned every step of her niece’s journey to the McCaig Estate Farm House and at each step she had revealed exactly what Anna had needed to know in order to intrigue her more. If Aunt Helen had wanted Anna to know what was in these pages, she would undoubtedly have left significant clues with either George McLennan or Anna herself.
Anna sat back and tried to summon her wits to her aid. She had a decision to make.
Should this material remain private or should Anna read it?
She found herself unable to make the choice. The last thing she wished to do was to invade Aunt Helen’s privacy. She acknowledged somewhere in her brain that this was not entirely logical thinking. Her aunt was dead. The house and contents had been left to Anna to dispose of as she saw fit. And yet, her respect for Helen Dunlop leapfrogged over these reasons and still stayed her hand from reading the contents of the secret hoard.
Read or not read?
She see-sawed back and forth between the two options until she thought her brain would explode.
A noise from the lounge broke the stalemate. Alina! Of course, Alina would help decide what was appropriate.
Anna jumped up and rushed to the lounge, throwing open the door with such force that it crashed against the wall.
“What......!” Alina was shocked at this sudden invasion. She looked up from her position on the carpet where she was arranging the books that were to be returned to the shelves and got to her knees as soon as she saw Anna’s face.
“What on earth is the matter! You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“You may be right! I think I have uncovered Helen Dunlop’s secret diary, or it could be financial records or else nothing important, I really don’t know. You have to help me decide what to do with this.”
“That’s easy, my dear” responded Alina rising up and dusting off her hands against her jeans. What else were you here for? Isn’t this what you were hoping to find?
Let’s take a look and settle your questions right now.”
While Anna still stood in a state of paralysis, Alina calmly walked past her into the kitchen, sat down in front of the papers and lifted the first page.
Chapter Ten
In the end, it was Anna who read the memoir, for that was what it was.
After a few attempts to read the close-written pages, Alina gave up and turned the task over to Anna declaring that it was too much eye strain for her to struggle with reading the handwriting for any length of time.
Anna agreed, and took the pages to her office, the new room that had been created out of the lounge, leaving her with the rear window against which a fine teak desk was placed.
The early morning light was now obscured behind a bank of grey clouds. Anna glanced upward and decided these were snow clouds and more snow was likely. The dim light suited her mood, however. She switched on the desk lamp, creating a pool of bright light, and within it she proceeded to read the first pages.
* * *
It is said that people who live in glass houses should not throw stones. I have lived in a glass house for many years, hence my choice of this old horticulture book as the guardian of my secrets.
I do not expect this account of my marriage will ever be seen by anyone else. Indeed, I intend it to remain private. There are things the soul needs to confess alone. Writing helps to work out the twists and turns of the mind.
I mean to dispose of this record once it has served its purpose.
It is only now that I have the great privilege of living free of any other person’s influence, that I can look back on the mistakes I have made and the regrets I have accumulated.
I freely admit entering marriage with Harold Fraser under false pretences. After leaving the Dunlop family behind me forever, I had struggled to survive on my own with no formal training and few skills, other than child minding.
I could clearly see a future of destitution ahead of me and I resolved to escape that fate in any way possible.
I suppose I resorted to using the only advantage I possessed.
I had youth on my side and a ready smile when I wanted to get something from a man. This meagre talent had been honed in many pubs and bars in the larger Scottish towns.
With shame, I recall the nights I deceived my way into a pub meal by promising what I had no intention of delivering. Fortunately, a drunk man is not likely to remember the cash stolen from his wallet or the hours spent in the company of a person no one could put a name to the next night.
These shameful tactics kept the wolf from the door for months.
I shared miserable flats with two or three girls I met in such places. None were ever friends. As long as I paid something toward the rent and caused no trouble, I could stay.
It is only now that I realise some greater power must have watched over me. Any one of the men I robbed, or any of the women I lived with, could have strangled the life out of me and no one would have cared.
It was in a pub in Stirling that I first saw Harold Fraser.
He was with a group of men at the end of the bar, enjoying beer with whisky chasers. I never considered him a target.
I chose only men who drank alone for my victims.
I watched the group from a corner table where I nursed a single beer; not difficult for me as I had always hated the very smell of alcohol.
I was particularly depressed that night. I was afraid this lifestyle was wearing down the little hope I retained from the misery of my childhood. I could see no escape. Who would ever want a girl who spent her evenings in the dim, smoky interiors of places where few decent women went unescorted?
Fate intervened unexpectedly. Harold left his bar companions to visit the lavatory. When he passed by my table, he was already at the staggering stage and it was a simple matter for me to place my foot in his path then help him back to his feet with artificial smiles and expressions of concern.